Trampled Under Foot
by el spirito
Summary: "Dean stumbles and this time he knows he won't stay on his knees. He throws his arms in front of him out of instinct and only has a split second to realize that that's a really, really bad idea before he hits the ground and then everything just…stops." Dean's gone missing and Sam's determined to find him- no matter what. Season 2 angsty boys.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was written for the Beta Branch BigBang, inspired by a prompt at hoodietime, and covers my hypothermia square in h/c bingo.

Cover art was drawn by the lovely finaljoy!

xxxx

Dean hates snow. He comes to that conclusion around the second time he collapses to his knees and as he sits there shivering and trying to conjure enough energy to get up, he decides that it's a valid thing to think. In fact, he isn't sure why snow even _exists._ It's an unnecessary evil and doesn't help anyone; he would get rid of it forever if he could. Sam would disagree, of course. He'd say that snow is important for the ecosystem, blah blah blah, and what about the polar bears and the penguins?

Dean swallows thickly and takes as deep a breath as his ribs will allow, and uses his good left hand to lever himself to a mostly-upright position. The snow is a good seven or eight inches thick and shows no sign of slowing up, drifting down in a steady pound. Dean starts trudging forward again. Polar bears are pretty cool, he guesses, so maybe snow has a few good uses, at least. And penguins are kind of cute. Plus the ones in that Madagascar movie are funny.

"See, Sam?" Dean says, "I can be rational. Snow is good."

The only answer is the whistle of the wind that tosses the snow around and bites through his thin shirt and pants and raises goosebumps on his skin. Dean shivers and tries not to inhale too sharply; the cold air tickles his throat, which makes him cough, which makes his chest throb in agony, which makes him inhale too sharply. It's a cycle of doom, really. At least his arm has gone mostly numb.

The bastards who kidnapped him broke it. Thoroughly. He can't see the bone sticking out of it now because he bandaged it the best he could, but it's bled a good bit. He thinks it's slowed down now because of the cold, which is mostly a good thing. At least, he thinks so. Everything is a bit jumbled and his head feels thick and kinda fuzzy. It's weird.

He stumbles and this time he knows he won't stay on his knees. He throws his arms in front of him out of instinct and only has a split second to realize that that's a really, _really _bad idea before he hits the ground. Pain shoots up his arm and through his chest and damn the polar bears he _hates _snow.

And then everything just…stops.

xxxx

They took him at a bar. A _bar._ Sam knows he's going to hear about that one for weeks from Dean. _They kidnapped me from a bar, Sammy. Bars are off-limits. Bars are sacred. What kind of douchebag messes with a man at a bar? _Sam will remind him that, actually, all kinds of crappy stuff happens at bars, but Dean will pretend he didn't hear him.

That's all assuming, of course, that Sam can find him.

He called Bobby as soon as he woke up and realized Dean had never come back to the motel and wasn't answering his phone. He felt a tiny bit silly as he dialed, but he was worried about Dean; they were both still reeling from Dad's death even if neither would admit it and damn it, Sam didn't want to do this alone.

Bobby took it with as much grace as he always did, which is to say he cussed Dean out and said he would be there in three hours.

Sam checked the hospital first (hey, it was a pretty good guess considering Dean's track record) and then the police station (wouldn't be the first time) and then started checking bars near their motel. It's at the second place that the bartender, a thin wisp of a man, recognizes Dean's picture.

"Oh sure," he says, nodding. "He had all the ladies in here gawking."

Sam manages not to roll his eyes. "Did you see him leave?" he asks.

"Yep," the bartender says. "Right around 10:30 if I recall correctly."

10:30 is early. 10:30 means Dean should have been home in time to cram in at least one beer before bed.

"Did he seem okay? When he left?"

The bartender scratches awkwardly behind an ear and gnaws at his lower lip. Sam is anything but reassured by the nervous gesture. "Well, it ain't really my place to judge," he says, "but when he left off he seemed like he'd had a bit too much to drink."

Sam frowns. It would take a lot these days to get Dean drunk off his ass. "Did he leave alone?"

The bartender shakes his head. "Nah, left with two of his buddies."

"Buddies?" Sam asks, alarm sharpening his voice. "What did they look like?"

"I dunno, they were bigger, one of 'em had a beard."

"Anything else about them that stood out?" Sam asks, panic slowly starting to creep in.

"Look, I already told you what I know," the bartender says, his voice taking on a defensive edge, and Sam recognizes that the man isn't going to give him anything else.

"Okay, okay, thanks," Sam says. His brain is racing as he turns to leave, trying to think of anyone he knows who matches the 'big and bearded' description. He's almost to the door when he hears someone clearing her throat behind him, trying to get his attention. Sam turns to see a waitress, towel still in hand from wiping down a table.

"I overheard you talking," she says quietly. Sam walks toward her, cocking his head to hear, surprised when she shakes her head, throwing a nervous look toward the bartender. Sam stops, frowning. "I'm on break in ten minutes. Meet me across the street in the coffee shop."

"Okay," Sam says, tone low. "Thanks."

He nearly drives himself crazy in the coffee shop waiting to see if the waitress will come. After fifteen minutes he's just about ready to storm back to the bar when he sees her walk in, purse clutched in one hand.

"Hi," Sam says, standing quickly and holding out a hand. "I'm Sam."

"Melissa," the waitress says, shaking his hand firmly. She's probably in her mid-forties and petite, not even coming to Sam's shoulder.

"I, uh, got you a coffee," he says, pushing the cup across the table to her as they sit down.

"Thanks," Melissa says, accepting the drink. "Listen, I don't have a whole lot of time."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Sam says. "What did you want to tell me?"

"The bar I work at isn't the most reputable place around," Melissa says, "and Walt – the bartender – knows that if we start blabbing about the shit that goes on there, we'll lose half our customers."

Sam nods and swallows thickly.

"Normally I wouldn't say anything," Melissa says, her voice dropping low, "but I know what it looks like when someone is drugged, and I'd bet a month's wages that those sons of bitches roofied your brother."

"They – what?" Sam asks, mind reeling. The implications of Melissa's words make his stomach ache.

"I'm sorry," Melissa says. "And maybe I'm wrong, but I didn't see your brother drinking enough to warrant how unsteady and drowsy he was."

"No," Sam says, "you're probably right." But damn how he wishes she isn't. He feels the blood draining from his face and Melissa must notice, because she presses a hand down over Sam's and asks if he's okay.

It takes him a moment to even formulate a response. "Yeah," he says finally, "I'm okay."

"I'll tell you everything I know, okay?" Melissa says, her voice soothing. It reminds Sam of the way he used to imagine mothers sounding.

"That'd be great," Sam says.

"There were two of them," Melissa says, and Sam starts writing. "One was tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than you, but much bulkier. He had a scar through one of his eyebrows – the left? – and blonde hair. The other was a bit shorter, probably six foot. He had brown hair and a bushy beard."

"Got it," Sam says. "Anything else?"

"They had Southern accents," she adds, "and they were real bastards."

"I'm going to find them," Sam says. He isn't very surprised to see that he's been writing so firmly that he's ripped through the paper.

"Good," Melissa says. She reaches forward and takes Sam's notebook and pen, scribbling her number in the corner. "If you think of any other way I can help, call me."

"I will," Sam says. "Thanks."

Melissa stands and puts a small hand on Sam's shoulder. "Good luck. I hope you find your brother."

"I will," Sam repeats, his voice harder this time. He watches Melissa leave and takes a deep breath, clutching his notebook tightly. He _will_.

xxxx

Dean wakes up, which is something of a surprise, actually. He thinks it should probably be a good surprise, (_congratulations, you're not dead!) _but he's so cold and everything hurts so much that for a second he thinks it might have been nicer to just stay asleep.

He shakes his head and groans. He can't think like that, not with Sammy on his own and hunters after them. The hunters were dumbasses, sure, but they'd also managed to kidnap him. He's still a bit fuzzy on how that happened, actually, but the point is that if they could get to him then they can get to Sam.

That thought reinvigorates him enough that Dean takes a deep breath (and _ouch, _ribs) and pushes himself up with his good arm. Blinking, he takes what might be his first rational look at his surroundings, and where before he just saw white, he can now make out blurry shapes in the distance that resemble trees. They seem to be roughly in a line, so maybe they're near a road.

It's hardly a sure thing, but it's the best Dean's got, so he turns and starts trudging in the direction of the trees. He's cold, shivering harshly, and his fingers ache. He doesn't know how long he's been out here and suspects the men who took him kept him pretty drugged up. Typically it would be nice to be thinking clearly after so long in a fog, but it only serves to make his pain blindingly sharp.

He starts humming AC/DC under his breath and forces himself to walk. Memories of training exercises, of Dad shouting encouragement or chastisement as he and Sam ran past rise to his mind, reawakening a sharp pang of loss and sadness that has been lurking since Dad died. Dad's dead. It's been a few months (six months, fifteen days, but who's counting?) but there are times when it feels like it was just yesterday that he and Sam watched the body of their father burn.

Dean keeps walking. His father taught him to keep going even when he didn't want to, even when anybody else would give up, and Dean isn't going to let him down now just because he's dead.

_You keep moving, son. We'll get you. We'll always get you. _The wind sounds like Dad. Dean chokes on a sob and keeps moving.

xxxx

"_I don't wanna run anymore! I'm tired!" Sam whines, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Dean bites back a smile at Sam's plea and shakes his head. His brother is such a wimp. _

"_Come on Sammy, we're almost there," Dean says. "Just a bit further." _

_They're out at Pastor Jim's place for the summer. It's usually their favorite place to go, with its sprawling hills and wooded land, but since Sam's started training the space has taken on a different meaning entirely. Now it just means that there's plenty of space for them to run. _

"_Come on Sam," Dean says, but Sam has stopped, chest heaving and hands on his knees. Dean can hear how he's trying not to cry. _

"_Dean," Sam says. His voice is broken and Dean almost breaks with it. "Dean, I can't." _

"_Hey," Dean says, stooping to look into his brother's face. "Hey. We can do it, okay? We'll take it slow. It's okay if it takes us a long time. Let's just finish it, huh?" _

_Sam nods and swipes at his eyes. _

"_I'm sorry," he says. "I'm such a baby." _

"_Kind of," Dean agrees, punching Sam lightly in the shoulder. "But that's okay. What's important is you keep going." _

"_Yeah," Sam says, looking up at Dean with red-rimmed eyes. For just a second Dean feels hot, searing anger that they have to train, that his little brother is being pushed through the woods of Minnesota instead of being allowed to just be a kid. But then he remembers the smell of smoke and the sound of fire and remembers that he would do anything to protect Sammy, even if it means making him grow up too soon. _

_That doesn't make it fair, though. _

_They keep going at maybe half the pace Dean had initially set, but eventually they finish. Dad is standing in front of the house with a frown on his face and he taps at his watch as they approach. Sam hangs his head and Dean grits his teeth. _

"_We finished," Dean says before Dad can say anything. "Sam did a good job. We finished. I'm proud of us." _

_Dad is quiet a moment, looking at Dean and at Sam before he takes a deep breath. "I used to hate running," he says eventually. Dean frowns in surprise and Sam looks up sharply. "Mary loved it, though. 'Just keep moving, John,' she'd say. 'I'm right here. Keep moving.'" Dad looks away for a second. Dean doesn't even know what to think. Dad's never talked about Mom before, not ever. _

"_I'm proud of you too," Dad says after a minute. _

_There's an awkward silence where none of them know what to say. Sam swallows thickly and sniffles and Dean puts a hand on his back. Sammy never even knew Mom. Sometimes Dean thinks that would be better than the patchy memories he has, but he knows he would never give up those prized images. _

"_Doesn't mean you've gotta go faster," Dad says, and the moment is over. "You're going to get hurt one of these days if you keep up like that." _

"_Yes sir," Dean says. Sam echoes him, his voice still wobbly. _

"_Good," Dad says. "Go inside, get cleaned up. Jim's got a lasagna in the oven." _

_Sam grins. Lasagna is his favorite. _

"_And he made peach pie," Dad adds._

"_Awesome!" Dean says, then punches Sam in the shoulder. "Race you upstairs!" _

_Later when Sam's in the shower, Dean looks out the window. Dad is still standing outside alone, watching the sunset. Dean remembers the way he looks, sad but strong and determined, for a long time afterward. _


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: special thanks to RedBessRackham and finaljoy who were lovely betas, and also to my besties olivebirks and browncoats-and-floral-bonnets for encouraging me and helping shape this story.

Also, I don't own the Winchesters. Still.

xxxx

Bobby gets to Fergus Falls in record time, grateful that the boys were in the same neck of the woods as South Dakota when they got in trouble for once. He's had enough of getting desperate phone calls and trying to help from a distance, thank you very much.

Minnesota is colder than belly-blue hell in the winter and by the time Bobby gets there, there's already close to a foot of snow on the ground with more of it coming down. He doesn't know where in the hell Dean got himself, but he prays it's not outdoors.

The Winchesters are staying in some crappy little motel that looks like it should be shut down. (Like father, like sons, Bobby thinks; he spent most of the boys' formative years wondering how the hell John took them to the dumps they slept in.) Sam has the door open even before Bobby gets out of his truck, towering in the doorway with a pinched look on his face, hair tousled as if he's been running his hands through it. He's the picture of stress.

"Bobby," Sam says, crossing next to the truck and reaching for a hug as soon as Bobby climbs out. "Thanks for coming."

"Aw hell Sam," Bobby says, patting at the younger man's broad back. "Of course I came, you idjit."

"Come inside," Sam says. "I'll tell you what I know."

"I brought dinner," Bobby says, following Sam into the motel room. "Figured you probably haven't been taking care of yourself too well."

Sam has the good grace to blush and then runs a hand through his hair, tousling it even further. Bobby wonders if he realizes how young it makes him seem.

"I've got some solid leads," Sam says, sitting down at a flimsy table in the room and shuffling through some papers. Bobby sets a chicken salad down in front of him. He doesn't know where the youngest Winchester got his eating habits, but sure as hell not from him or John. Definitely not from Dean.

"Let me look through 'em while you eat," Bobby says, extending a hand. Sam blinks but doesn't move.

"But Bobby-"

"You can explain in a minute. You need to eat and I can read," Bobby says. "It ain't a request."

Sam nods and swallows then shuffles the papers he has together and hands them to Bobby. Bobby scans them quickly; Sam has carefully listed the bar where Dean was last seen and approximate times he could have been taken, as well as descriptions of the two men that could be responsible. Bobby's stomach sinks and he swears quietly under his breath when he sees a bullet point labeled "_roofied?"_underlined so many times the paper's worn through.

He looks up at Sam and shakes his head. No wonder the kid looks worn down. He's picking listlessly at his salad, face tight. It looks like he's eaten maybe four pieces of lettuce.

"Hey," Bobby says. "You're supposed to eat it, not play with it." Sam doesn't even bother trying to smile.

"I'm just not very hungry," he murmurs.

"I know, Sam, but you've gotta eat. Now, I could give you some speech you've heard a million times about how you ain't gonna do your brother any good if you collapse, or you could eat your damn salad."

"Fine," Sam says, shoving a huge forkful into his mouth that makes his cheeks bulge and reminds Bobby sharply of his brother. Bobby shakes his head before turning back to Sam's notes, reading them for detail this time. The descriptions of the men who took Dean sound vaguely familiar and he closes his eyes and starts going through his mental catalogue of hunters.

"Bobby?" Sam says, voice high. "What is it?"

"Just give me a second to think," Bobby answers. Sam quiets and eats another wad of lettuce.

"They sound like they could be James Thompson's boys," Bobby says after a minute. "Last time I saw 'em they were still pretty small, but I could tell they were going to grow up big. They're from down in Alabama."

"Okay," Sam says. "That's a good start. Any idea why they might have gone after Dean?"

Bobby scratches at his beard and sighs. "Your father and James Thompson weren't exactly on the best of terms, Sam."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Sam says, shaking his head. "Was there anyone he was on good terms with?"

"He was a stubborn ass at the best of times," Bobby says, but he suspects Sam can hear the fondness that laces the words despite his best efforts.

Sam snorts. "Tell me something I don't know," he says. "So what was his problem with James?"

"A few years back your dad was hunting a Black Dog down in Mississippi. Turned out James was hunting the same dog. Neither of them knew that the other would be there and James got in your dad's way."

"What, did Dad shoot him?" Sam asks, tone somewhere between incredulous and disbelieving.

"Just about," Bobby says. "Shot the dog on top of him, heavy bastard. James ended up with a broken back. Paralyzed him from the mid-chest down."

"Shit," Sam murmurs.

"It gets worse. He killed himself a few months ago."

Sam swipes a hand across his mouth and leans back in his chair. "And you think his sons are out for some kind of revenge?"

"Maybe," Bobby says.

"But Dad's dead," Sam says. "Are they so bitter they're willing to take Dean out even though they've never even met him?"

"It's possible," Bobby says. "Or they don't realize your dad's dead and are hoping to get to him."

"It's been six months," Sam says, frowning. "You really think they wouldn't know that?"

Bobby shrugs. "James wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box," he says, "and apples don't fall far from the tree."

Sam gives a lopsided grin and shakes his head. "That was a lot of idioms for one sentence, even for you."

"I don't know, Sam, but your dad and the Thompson boys… I mean, this is the first I've heard of 'em in years. We just weren't in the same circles. It's possible they haven't heard hide nor hair of you Winchesters in just as long."

Sam scrubs at his hair again and groans. "But they were still smart enough to drug Dean and kidnap him."

"Yeah," Bobby agrees, because he can't really disagree, can he? "But they won't be smart enough to get away from us."

Sam looks up and smiles, his look so predatory it startles Bobby. Sometimes it's easy to believe Sam's carefully crafted façade, the smart, diet-conscious college student who got dragged into hunting kicking and screaming. Sometimes, though, his wall cracks just enough that the Winchester ferocity pokes out and Bobby remembers that the kid's got a temper to match his daddy's.

"No," he says. "They won't."

xxxx

Dean is spending as much time on his hands and knees now as he is on his feet; it seems like he can't take more than two steps without stumbling and falling. It's annoying as hell. On the plus side, he's pretty sure he's made it to a road and is at least stumbling with direction. Of course, that's assuming this isn't just a patch of road in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from the nearest town.

He's pretty sure he's in the middle of nowhere.

It's boring, walking in the snow. Just white, white, white all around, big lumps of white and small lumps of white. Everything kind of narrows after a while and becomes just steps, just taking one step and then another and then a third. After he stumbles it becomes pushing himself to his knees and then to his feet, swaying until he can regain something resembling balance and then it all starts over again.

It's like a pattern. He can do patterns. He's good at patterns, always has been. Sammy's always been better at English and history, would write persuasive essays so damn moving his teachers would cry. Dean was shit at writing. But patterns, numbers, those were things he could sink his teeth into. He loves maps, too, plotting out places where attacks happen and then finding the common thread between them.

He can do this pattern. Step, step, stumble, step. Just keep moving. _Just keep moving. _

If Dad could see him he would tell him to suck it up. Maybe Mom would be nicer. Dean's forgotten what her voice sounded like, whether it was high and sweet or low and smoky, but he can still remember her tone, how her voice rose when she said his name, how it dipped when she tucked him in at night and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

"_Hey baby," _she would say if she were here. Her face would be so soft and she'd put her hand on his cheek and then run it through his hair. "_Come on, Dean. You can do this. I know it hurts, but you have to keep going. You can do that, right? I'm right here. I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere. Just keep moving, Dean. I love you, baby. Just keep moving." _

The snow that brushes past his face feels like her fingers, warm and gentle.

Dean's lungs seize up for a second, though with emotion or the cold he can't tell. He lets out a coughing sob and tumbles to his knees again, curls over at the waist and tries to just breathe, but it _hurts _and he's _alone. _The damn wind and snow are like ghosts, swirling around him, chilling him to the bone, haunting him with memories of his parents. He just wants everything to _shut the fuck up. _

He lets out something that might be a roar or a sob or a scream and slams his good arm into the snow, chest heaving.

He's so tired.

_Get up, baby. _

_Just keep moving, Dean._

He can almost hear their voices. He can almost see their faces.

Dean closes his eyes.

xxxx

After an hour of phone calls, a friend of a friend of Bobby's is able to confirm that the Thompson boys left for Fergus Falls a few days ago and even gives them a description of their car. It's not a lot to go on, but it's all they can find out.

The snow has started coming down in earnest now, coating everything liberally. If it keeps up for much longer, they won't be able to get out of town at all.

"What do you think, Sam?" Bobby asks.

Sam doesn't know where to start. He's feeling overwhelmed and dangerously close to panic. He swallows thickly and looks at Bobby, not bothering to try and hide his emotions.

"I-I don't know," he whispers. He can't read Bobby's face, isn't sure if the older hunter is disappointed in him or shares his feelings. Maybe both.

"I could try to-to find the car," Sam says after a minute. "Maybe they never left town."

"As good a place to start as any," Bobby says. "We'll be methodical about it. We can start asking at motels too. You feeling like Homeland Security or FBI today?"

Sam takes a deep breath and nods. "FBI," he says, then frowns. "How the hell did they know we would be here?"

Bobby shrugs. "I got my contacts," he says, "and other hunters have theirs."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. Dad never really talked about other hunters and while he and Dean knew, of course, that there were more out there, he's starting to realize that the hunting network is even bigger than he'd realized. They'd been naïve to assume that no one else knew or cared about them.

"Right. Let's go find those bastards' car," Sam says.

He's only been driving for fifteen minutes when Bobby calls.

"Got 'em," Bobby says.

Sam goes as fast as he can in the snowy conditions, grateful that there aren't many cars on the road thanks to the storm. He's even more grateful that the Thompsons are dumb sons of bitches.

Bobby's waiting for him across the street from the motel, face grim. He climbs out of his truck with a shotgun in one hand. Sam tucks his Taurus into his waistband and palms a Beretta. He isn't taking any chances.

"Don't kill 'em," Bobby says, his voice a low growl.

"Not yet," Sam answers, then heads to the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean thinks someone is yelling at him. Then again, he's been hearing stuff on the wind for what feels like ages now, so it's probably just in his head.

He takes as deep a breath as he can manage without coughing (which isn't very) and goes to take another step when he realizes he's on his ass in the snow. Which is strange, because he doesn't remember sitting down. Has he been sitting down this whole time? His head hurts.

The yelling gets louder and he looks up, surprised to see a blurry shape heading towards him through the snow. He reaches for his gun (it's not there, hasn't been there for awhile, don't you remember?) and gets thrown off balance so that he's on his side, face mashed into the snow. He wants to move but his limbs feel numb and heavy and they're basically rebelling against his command anyway, so he settles for just laying there. If it's a black dog or something he's screwed but he can't even bring himself to care.

The yelling continues getting louder and the shape gets bigger until he realizes that it's a person, crouching over him. He can see the man's hand on his shoulder but he can't feel it, which is not as disconcerting as he would have expected. In fact, he's feeling pretty good. He's been cold for so long now that it's almost starting to feel warm.

The man is trying to say something, but Dean can't really hear him and he doesn't feel like trying, so instead he offers a half-smile. The man shakes his head and then something is settling on Dean's shoulders; it takes him a moment to realize it's a blanket. It doesn't feel warm, though.

"Come on, son," the man says, the first thing Dean's been able to make out. He blinks and peers up at the man, fairly certain it isn't his father. But he called him 'son,' so who else could it be? Dean allows himself to be pulled to his feet and has enough time to realize that that's a really bad idea before he's somehow back in the snow, _again. _This is getting old.

xxxx

Bobby is pretty pissed off. It's been a long time since he's felt fury like this flowing through his veins, increasing with every beat of his heart and threatening to burn him up from the inside out. Actually, it was six months ago, when a demon had blown a hole in the Winchester family and left his boys broken.

It looks like he's got nothing on Sam's anger, though.

The youngest Winchester doesn't even bother trying to open the door, just kicks it open and barrels in. The bigger of the two has a gun trained on Sam as soon as he bursts in, but Sam doesn't even break stride. He takes two steps and grabs the gun with his left hand, simultaneously smashing the heel of his right palm into Thompson's nose, then hooks a foot around the bigger man's ankle and sends him crashing to the floor.

If John could see him now, Bobby thinks, training his gun on the other Thompson boy who, apparently, is scared shitless.

"Sam?" he says after a second. "He's down, son." Sam stays where he is for a moment, gun trained on the downed man, breathing heavily. His knuckles are bloody.

"Sam," Bobby repeats, hardening his voice. "_Sam_."

Sam turns his head then and looks at Bobby, blinking.

"He's down," Bobby says. "And your brother's still out there."

Sam nods and snaps back to himself, looking down at the man at his feet. "Get up," he snarls, ignoring the way the man whimpers and clutches at his nose. There's blood dripping between the man's fingers and tangling in his beard. He groans but eventually struggles to his feet, swaying slightly.

The guy in front of Bobby looks spitting mad, fingers twitching toward his waistband.

"You'd best stop moving you don't want a knee full of pellets," Bobby says. The man stills.

"You bring your cuffs?" Sam asks casually, as if he's asking about the weather or if Bobby wants pizza for dinner.

"Course," Bobby says. Every respectable FBI agent carries handcuffs, and he is nothing if not respectable. He tosses a pair to Sam and then cuffs the man in front of him. Then he pulls a gun out of the man's waistband and easily lifts his wallet from the man's pocket.

"You bastard," the man hisses as Bobby shoves him onto the bed.

"Way I see it, you two brought all this upon yourselves," Bobby says, "so I'd just stay quiet if I were you."

The man glares up at him as Bobby looks in his wallet. "This one's name is Billy."

"This one's Joe," Sam says, turning to the man still bleeding in front of him. "Nice to meet you. I'm Sam Winchester and I want to know where the hell my brother is."

Joe's eyes widen and Billy swears passionately under his breath.

"Did you really think you'd get away with kidnapping Dean Winchester?" Bobby growls, glaring at Billy. "Did you really think we wouldn't come for you?"

"What makes you think we did anything to him?" Billy asks. "We don't even know him!"

Sam looks over at Billy, his expression carefully blank. "So it's just coincidence that you're here when we are, huh?"

Billy glares up at him, nostrils flaring. _"Yes_," he says.

"Interesting," Sam says, and shoots him in the kneecap.

Bobby doesn't know who is more surprised, Billy, Joe, or Bobby himself. Billy screams in pain and Joe starts yelling too, practically spitting in anger. Bobby stares at Sam, unsure what his next move should be.

"Sam-" he says, but Sam cuts him off.

"I saw on your license that you want to be an organ donor," Sam says to Billy. "That's pretty noble of you. I respect that. So how about this: the next bullet I put in you will be in your brain, should leave the rest of your organs in pretty good shape. How's that sound?"

Billy whimpers.

"Or," Sam says, leaning in close, "you can tell me where my brother is."

As Billy and Joe simultaneously start talking, Bobby's got to admit that the kid's got style. Scary style, but still.

"We drugged him at the bar," Joe gasps, sobbing. His nose has finally stopped bleeding but his beard is matted with dried blood. Billy's leg looks mangled, dripping blood on the floor. He's blabbing incoherently.

"Shut up Billy," Bobby says. He stops talking but continues to whimper softly.

"Yeah, and?" Sam says. "The sooner you tell us the sooner we can get Billy patched up."

"We took him outside of town," Joe says. "Ten miles north of town there's an old abandoned shack. We took him there."

"Is he still there?" Sam asks, glancing at Bobby with a combination of hope and desperation in his eyes.

Joe shakes his head. "No, we – we panicked," he stutters, wincing as Billy gasps in pain. "He – we just wanted Winchester to pay for what he'd done, but your brother kept saying that he's dead, even when –"

He stops abruptly, paling.

"When what?" Sam asks, voice low. "_When what?"_

"When he was…pressed," Joe answers. "His... his arm _might_ have taken the brunt of the pressing."

"Just tell me _exactly_ what happened or your kneecap's next," Sam hisses. Joe whimpers.

"We asked where your dad is," Joe says. "He was pretty out of it from the drugs I guess, but he kept saying your dad's dead. We panicked."

"We just wanted your dad to pay," Billy gasps.

"We got nothing against you and your brother," Joe says. "We panicked and dropped him off on the side of the road. Then we came back here."

There's a heavy silence for a second as Bobby and Sam take in what Joe just said.

"You mean Dean's out there drugged and with a broken arm? In this blizzard?" Bobby says, voice rising.

"I'm sorry!" Joe cries. "We called a friend after he kept saying John was dead, got it confirmed, and then we just freaked. We didn't want to bring you down on our heads."

"What the hell did you think you were bringing down on your heads? This would only have been worse if John were still alive!" Bobby cries.

"Where did you drop him?" Sam shouts. "Where is he?"

"We dropped him about five miles down McAdams Road, north of here. But he was – he was stumbling around pretty badly, he could be anywhere by now."

"Damn it!" Sam explodes, landing another punch to Joe's cheekbone. "You son of a _bitch_!" He paces for a moment, scrubbing a hand anxiously through his hair. "We have to go," he says to Bobby. "We have to go right now."

"Sam," Bobby says. "What about Billy?"

"What about him?" Sam roars, waving his gun. Bobby's never seen him this unhinged before.

"Sam, if we go out here and can't come straight back here, he's gonna die. Blood loss, shock, infection… that's all gonna start setting in pretty soon. Look at him, Sam, it's already starting."

And it is, of course; Billy's pale and sweaty, panting harshly, and there's a small puddle of blood beneath his foot.

"If he dies, he dies," Sam says, turning away. "If we let them go they'll turn us in. They'll go to the cops and our cars will be tagged and we'll get arrested and Dean will _die._ So if he dies, it's worth it."

Billy groans softly and Joe swallows audibly.

"Please," he says, "please, we won't turn you in, please." He keeps up a steady litany of pleas, chanting them under his breath like an exorcism spell. It's getting to Sam.

"I didn't want to kill anyone," Sam says. "But we can't, Bobby. We _can't._"

"I'll stand by you whatever you decide, Sam," Bobby says.

"Maybe I am a monster," Sam whispers. "Maybe you should just put me down now."

Bobby reaches over and smacks the back of his head. Sam blinks at him. "I don't want to hear you talk like that again," he says. "Now what the hell are we going to do?"

Sam takes a deep breath and seems to ground himself for a moment then nods. "Okay. We'll take the cuffs off of Billy, wrap up his knee, and then leave. He won't be able to get Joe out for a while, give us a head start. Hopefully we'll be able to get to Dean before the cops get to us."

"Okay," Bobby says, already heading for the first-aid kit sitting on the nightstand. Dumb the Thompson boys may be, but at least they keep a med kit. He pulls the bandage out, grateful that Sam seems to have snapped out of whatever zone he'd gotten into. He had been almost certain Sam was going to leave Billy to die.

He kneels down in front of Billy and wraps the bandage as tightly as he dares, ignoring the other man's grunts of pain. Sam reaches over and unlocks his handcuffs before standing again, looking at Billy with an expression of mixed anger and regret.

"I'm going to go get in the car," Sam says. "Get things warming up." He casts another apologetic glance at Billy and at Joe, then walks outside before Bobby can even respond.

Bobby looks at Billy, pale and trembling, and at Joe, a trail of dried blood from his nose to his chin, and takes a deep breath.

"I know you two realize that if I hadn't been here today, things would have ended up pretty differently," he says.

Joe looks up at him and nods, eyes wide.

"I just want you to know that I only stopped Sam from killing you because I don't think he needs your worthless lives on his conscience. If you ever, _ever _touch one of those boys again, hell if I even hear _rumors _that you are thinkingabout touching them, I will kill you myself. Are we clear?"

"Yes," Joe says, voice trembling.

"Clear," Billy whispers.

"Okay. Then we're going to go find Dean and we aren't going to have any trouble with the police when we get back, right?"

"Right," Joe says, then adds, "Please. Go."

Bobby leaves without giving them another look.

xxxx

Everything happens in flashes.

Snow. Cold. Pain. Being moved – _damn it that hurts – _and he remembers that it's Dad, but isn't Dad dead? He cracks his eyes open and sees a vague shape, maybe with a beard. Definitely Dad. Mostly-Dead-Dad. Stranger things have happened.

Mostly-Dead-Dad is swearing under his breath, one arm tucked under Dean's shoulder. They have this strange half-shuffling thing going on. It's not very efficient. Dean's surprised Mostly-Dead-Dad isn't telling him to move quicker, to get his ass in gear and get going, but maybe mostly-dying has made him a gentler soul.

He snorts when he thinks that, because 'Dad' and 'gentle' are not two words he would ever put together on a normal day. Of course, today isn't a normal day and when he snorts he starts coughing. It hurts. It _hurts._

Dean realizes that he hasn't inhaled for a while (which is pretty disconcerting, because since when has breathing become a conscious decision?) and when he finally tries he just keeps coughing and can't seem to stop or catch his breath. Black spots are starting to cloud his vision and his head is swimming, spinning around and around. He's passed out enough times to know the signs. Mostly-Dead-Dad is just going to have to keep hauling his ass around because he's done.

xxxx

They end up having to ditch the Impala just outside of town because of the snow. Sam mentally apologizes to her before getting blindsided with a feeling of utter panic. He hasn't been allowing himself to actually think about what they're looking for and about what they might find, but having to leave the Impala seems to have opened that Pandora's Box and now there's no going back.

Dean is out in the snow, has been for a while. He's got a busted arm, at the least; Sam suspects that when Joe said they'd "pressed" Dean, he meant they'd beaten him. Probably some bruised ribs or a head injury or bruised organs or internal bleeding or…

"Sam, get outta your head," Bobby says. Sam blinks and looks at him in surprise. Bobby's behind the wheel struggling to keep the truck on the road and he can still read Sam like a book. "Your brother's almost as stubborn as your dad. He'll be okay."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Probably."

They lapse into silence and Sam tries valiantly to stop thinking worst-case scenarios, but he doesn't have any reason not to, really. Not with all the crap they've gone through these past few years. Hell, they've gone through crap their whole lives. Why would things change for the better now?

"What if he isn't?" Sam says quietly. "I mean, what if –" He stops and takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself.

"We can't just pretend everything's going to be okay," Sam says after a minute. "We need a plan. I mean, what are we looking at here? Hypothermia, frostbite, broken arm…"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Bobby says. "We'll need to get him to a hospital for that arm of his. We'll take care of the hypothermia as best we can, the hospital will take care of the rest. We'll use our fake IDs. We'll take care of him step by step, just like we always do."

"Right," Sam says. "Just like we always do." He runs through it in his head, find Dean, get help for Dean, get his annoying, pain-in-the-ass big brother back. It'll be fine.

He's gotten himself in such a zone that when his phone rings he jumps out of his seat, heart thudding in his chest. It's an unknown number.

"Hello?" Sam says, looking at Bobby with wide eyes.

"Hello? Who is this?" a voice says. Definitely not Dean.

"Who's this?" Sam answers. "You called me!"

"This is Will Hawkins. I, uh, found a guy outside and he's been mumbling a few phone numbers? This is the first one I've tried that's picked up."

"Someone's found Dean," Sam says to Bobby, then turns back to the phone. "Where are you? How is he? Where'd you find him?"

"Whoa, slow down," Will says. "He wandered practically on top of my house, don't think he noticed though. I'm over on Barger Drive."

"Barger Drive," Sam says to Bobby. "How far is that from McAdams?"

"McAdams? That's two miles," he says. "If you're on McAdams right now, go north until you hit Bennett Street and take a left, the next road you meet will be Barger. Take a right and go another half mile, my house is on the right."

Sam repeats the instructions aloud for Bobby's sake and writes them down too to be safe.

"How is he?" Sam asks. "Is he conscious?"

"Eh," Will says, "conscious might be a bit optimistic. He's…in and out. Keeps calling me dad, and like I said, he mumbled a few different phone numbers when I asked. He couldn't tell me who they were for, though."

"Damn," Sam says under his breath. "And his arm?"

"Looks bad," Will says. "I peeked under the bandage and decided not to mess with it. Not when there's bone sticking out."

Sam swallows thickly. "Compound fracture," he says to Bobby. Bobby swears passionately. The snow is coming down even heavier now and the truck is starting to have problems with traction.

"And he's hypothermic?" Sam says.

"Definitely," Will says. "I've got him under blankets and with some hot water bottles, but it's gonna take a while, I reckon."

"Great. Awesome," Sam says. "We'll be there soon."

There's a pause on the other end of the phone as if Will is doing some serious thinking.

"How do I know you aren't the ones that did this to him?"

Sam's initial reaction was incredulity that Will would give his address _before _becoming suspicious, but rather than call him out on it, Sam decides to just be glad it even occurred to the other man.

"Dean had my number memorized because I'm his little brother, Sam," Sam says.

"He's been saying your name," Will says, "when he hasn't been asking after your parents. Are they with you?"

"No," Sam says, quietly. "They're both dead."

"Well I am sorry," Will says. "Didn't – lize – Sam?"

The phone starts cutting out partway through Will's response, and then goes completely dead.

"Will? Will? Damn it!" Sam shouts, slamming the dashboard in frustration. "We've lost connection."

"We know the way," Bobby says. "We'll get there. How is he?"

Sam sighs and scrubs at his face. "He's, uh –" He cuts himself off as his throat tightens. "We need to get there, Bobby."

"We will, Sam," Bobby says. Sam pretends he doesn't hear when Bobby adds under his breath, "And you'd better hang on, Dean."


	4. Chapter 4

They've just turned onto Barger Road when the truck has apparently had enough of the snow and starts skidding.

"Hang on!" Bobby shouts, trying to compensate for the skid. It only takes a few seconds for them to leave the road completely and the next moment finds them slamming into a snow bank. Both men are thrown forward, Sam slamming against the seatbelt, Bobby's head connecting with the steering wheel.

There are a few seconds of absolute silence before Sam shakes his head, scrubs at his chest, and finally turns to Bobby.

"You okay?" he asks, unclipping his seatbelt and reaching toward the older man. "Hey, Bobby. Are you alright?"

Bobby groans and brings a hand up to his head, wincing when he fumbles onto the cut hiding in the hair at his temple. "Damn," he mumbles, looking at the blood on his fingers. He blinks as Sam turns his head to get a better look at the cut and seems to gain a little more focus. "Sam, you okay, son?"

"I'm okay," Sam answers. "Bit sore from the seatbelt, but it's not bad."

Bobby nods and takes a shaky breath, then turns the key in the ignition. There is no response from the truck, not even the faintest rumble.

"Damn it!" Bobby cries. "I don't know if we're gonna get this truck moving again, Sam."

Sam swallows thickly, heart dropping. "I'll get out and take a look." Bobby moves to open his door, but Sam quickly puts a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Take it easy, Bobby."

Bobby looks like he wants to protest, but apparently thinks better of it and sighs heavily. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he says, pulling a handkerchief from a pocket and pressing it to his head.

"Just give me a few minutes," Sam says. "We'll figure something out." He steps outside and shuts the door, startled by how frigid the air is. Wind whistles past his face, bitingly cold, and snow slaps at his cheeks. Dean had been out in this. Dean had been out in _this, _for who knew how long. Sam's hands are shaking as he circles to the back of the truck, and it's only partly a result of the temperature.

The snow is knee-high and Sam knows there's no way they can dig that truck out any time soon. It's too long and Dean is in a house with some stranger and he's hurt and Sam needs to be there. He stomps back to the passenger door and opens it, clambers in next to Bobby.

"We aren't moving it, are we?" Bobby says, voice low.

"No," Sam says. "Not without a lot of digging and a lot of time."

"We don't have a lot of time," Bobby says, shaking his head and then wincing. "We've got to get to that house."

"We won't be able to get him out," Sam says quietly.

"We'll figure it out," Bobby answers. "Maybe he's not as bad as we're thinking."

The silence stretches between them, thick and menacing. They both know it's almost certainly as bad as they think, maybe worse.

"You up for this, Bobby? We're still maybe a half mile away, and it's nasty out there."

"Hell Sam, I'm old but I ain't that old. Dean needs us. We're going."

"Right," Sam says. He looks appraisingly at the older man; Bobby is wearing his heavy coat and gloves, but that trucker hat isn't going to do much against the cold. Sam shucks off his beanie and holds it out.

"The hell is that?" Bobby asks.

"A beanie. To keep your head warm."

"I've got a hat."

"It won't work," Sam says and shakes the beanie a bit, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"What about you?" Bobby asks, frowning.

"I've still got a head full of hair," Sam says. "Unlike you."

Bobby rolls his eyes and snatches the beanie from Sam's hands. "Fine," he says, "but only because you have enough hair to make girls jealous."

Sam watches as he tucks the cap around his ears with a light wince when it brushes the cut at his hairline.

"Satisfied?" Bobby grumbles, looking up at Sam. Sam looks at him again, then reaches over and zips Bobby's coat up to his chin, ignoring the older man's incredulous look and low curses.

"Damn straight," Sam says as he sits up again. "Let's go."

xxxx

The only thing that Dean registers is the cold. He doesn't know where he is, though there's no white anymore, so indoors. Probably. The man – Dad? – that he saw before moves into his line of sight, nothing more than a blurry outline, and he sees something pressed around him. He's too numb to actually feel it. Maybe it's supposed to be warm, whatever it is. It isn't.

It's just cold. _Everything _is just cold. His whole being has narrowed down to that one word, that one sensation, to the ice that has seeped into his bones and oozed into his blood.

The man is trying to talk to him, is maybe even touching him, but Dean can't feel it.

"Cold," he says, or at least he tries to, but he can't get his jaw to open. Maybe it's frosted shut. Maybe he's turning into Iceman. Maybe he's a Mutant and Sam's not the only freak in the family; the thought is kind of exciting in a detached way. That guy was cool. Heh. Cool.

"Son?" the man is saying. "Son?" He might say more, but Dean can't hear it.

He can't focus on anything but the cold.

xxxx

Bobby knows he's holding Sam up. He's certainly had worse head injuries, but he's still in pain and the damn sub-zero temperatures aren't helping anything. He can tell that Sam is anxious, but the younger man doesn't say anything, just trudges through the snow and looks back at Bobby every few minutes. Bobby is torn between feeling guilty and touched at Sam's concern.

"Bobby? You hanging in there?" Sam asks, and Bobby realizes he's stopped moving for a few seconds. Sam is frowning, already headed back toward him.

"I'm fine," Bobby says. Sam gets to him and reaches up to his head. "Hey," the older man says, swatting at his hand.

"Let me look," Sam demands, his tone surprisingly fierce. Bobby, more out of surprise than anything else, stills, allowing Sam to prod gently at the wound on his temple. It's strange, having someone look out for him. He hasn't had that since Karen.

"It's stopped bleeding," Sam says, "but I'm worried about you being out in this cold."

"It's nothing I can't handle," Bobby insists. "I've had worse."

The younger man purses his lips and his frown deepens. "Okay," he says finally. "But I want you to tell me if you start feeling worse, huh? I'll carry you if I have to."

"Like hell you will," Bobby growls. "Let's go."

They trudge along in silence, the wind and snow beginning to lessen as they go. Bobby can't help but imagine Dean struggling through these conditions with a busted arm and a drugged up head and who-knows-what-all wrong with him; chalk that one up to the legendary Winchester stubbornness.

"I see the house," Sam says, his voice tight with emotion. Bobby figures the same feelings are coursing through his body – relief mixed with a healthy dose of apprehension. They don't know what condition Dean is going to be in, or how the hell they're going to get him out.

"Let's hurry it up then," Bobby says, but Sam doesn't move. Bobby frowns and glances at the younger man, noting the tense form and, for the first time since they've started looking for Dean, how uncertain he looks.

"Sam?" Bobby says.

"It could be a trap," Sam says. "We don't have any guarantee and I just – just dragged you out here."

"Sam-"

"You should stay here," Sam continues, avoiding eye contact. He swallows thickly. "If something happened to you, Dean would never forgive me."

"Okay, you can stop that right there," Bobby says, touched and annoyed in equal parts. Damn Winchesters, always thinking he needs looking after. "You didn't drag me out here, I wanted to come. And damn it, I've been hunting since before you were conceived. You think I can't take care of myself?"

Sam looks at him, finally, his expression haunted and surprisingly vulnerable. "I'm sorry," he says. "I guess I just realized how little thought I put into this and now we're here and we don't know…"

"This is the best bet we've got," Bobby says. "And if he isn't here, we start looking again. That's it. You got me?"

"Yeah," Sam says, voice croaky and taut with emotion. "Got it."

They move forward again, Sam's body tight. The house is a small log cabin, rough-hewn and simple. There are a few stairs leading up to the door; Sam scales them in one long stride, quiet and startlingly graceful considering his thick boots and the snow clinging to his feet. Sam draws his gun and takes a deep breath, and just like that he once again looks confident and lethal, no trace of the doubt he'd experienced only moments before. Bobby comes up behind him and gives him a nod, gripping his shotgun as Sam reaches toward the doorbell.

Before he can touch it, the door swings open to reveal a man who appears to be in his 50s, sporting a thick salt-and-pepper beard. He's wearing a thick coat and a scarf, and if he's startled by the sight of two men crouching by his door with guns, he gives no indication of it.

"You'd best come in," he says, "and be quick about it." With that, he turns and disappears into the house. Sam blinks, gun still raised, and turns to Bobby, a quizzical look on his face.

"Wh-_what?_" he manages, confusion evident. Bobby shrugs and steps inside.

"Guess we'll find out," he says.

xxxx

The house is dark and cold and Sam's stomach drops to his boots.

"Power's out," the man says from ahead. "I've tried to stoke the fire up but I'm afraid it isn't enough."

Sam swallows thickly and follows closely behind Bobby, trying not to panic. The adrenaline he felt getting himself pumped up to bust down the door fled entirely with their anti-climactic entrance, and now his fear and excitement and concern are making his legs weak, his hands tremble.

The dark hallway opens up to a small living room with a fire blazing in the fireplace. The orange light gives the room an eerie feeling, only made worse when Sam spots Dean's still form on a mattress that has been settled right in front of the fire.

"Dean," Sam says, practically stumbling in his haste to get to his brother's side. "Dean, I'm here now. I'm good. Can you hear me? Dean. _Dean_."

Dean's face is icy beneath his hand; it's the only thing that Sam can touch, blankets stacked up and covering every other inch of his brother's skin. Bobby and the man are speaking in low tones above Sam's head but he pays them no mind. Dean's face is pale, his lips colored with blue, and he doesn't even twitch at Sam's presence.

"Damn it Dean," Sam whispers. He tucks a hand under the blankets and settles it on Dean's chest, silently feeling his brother's sluggish heartbeat. It's frighteningly slow, but still manages to calm Sam down. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Bobby.

"What do we do now?" he asks.

Five minutes later, Sam is settled in next to Dean on the bed, stripped down to his boxers. He would crack a joke if Dean were conscious to hear it, but he can't bring himself to say them even in his head. Not when his brother is lying against him, cold and still and unresponsive. The man, Will, is trying to contact someone, anyone, but is so far coming up short, and Bobby is just finishing tucking hot water bottles around Dean's armpits and groin.

"How you doing?" Bobby asks as he tucks the blankets around Dean again.

"I'm hot as hell," Sam says. "But he still feels like ice."

Bobby sighs and Sam knows what he's thinking. Dean's temperature is still dangerously low, and his chest is beginning to turn purple and blue in stark contrast to the whiteness of the skin around the bruising. Bobby's found at least three broken ribs and there are probably more that are cracked or bruised. There's bruising on his back that means he'll probably be pissing blood. One eye is starting to blacken and swell. The arm's the worst of it though, at least visibly; there's a small shard of bone poking through his right forearm and neither of them have the medical knowledge to reduce it. Bobby re-bandaged it and carefully made a sling to keep it as immobile as possible, but the tips of Dean's fingers are starting to show discoloration. If they don't get him out of here soon, he's going to lose his arm. At best.

"How's the head?" Sam asks. Bobby shrugs and fingers the bandage at his temple.

"Still trucking," Bobby says.

"Good," Sam says. "Hey, there isn't much you can be doing right now, right?"

"Nah," Bobby says. "Cell tower must've gone down, can't get any service. Will is trying to figure something out – he said he has an old dial-phone that he might be able to use but he's gotta find the right cables and stuff first. As soon as he does we'll get Dean out of here."

"Right," Sam says. "Well, you've got as much body heat as I do. Dean could use it. If- I mean, if that's not too awkward."

"It's awkward as hell," Bobby says, already unbuttoning his coat, "but I'll do it for him."

"Thank you," Sam says. Shit but he's tired suddenly, eyelids drooping to half-mast.

"Ground rules," Bobby says.

"What?"

"I'm setting some ground rules first," Bobby says. "First: you do not say anything about the size of my beer belly. I am plenty aware I'm a fat old man. Second: Dean never hears about this. Okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam says. He was already planning on not looking when Bobby climbs into their nest of blankets, and the ribbing they would both be subject to if Dean knew about it…

No, Sam's keeping this one to himself.

The blankets shift and then Bobby tucks himself around Dean's other side. Sam winces as his hand, which he'd had draped over Dean's abdomen, brushes Bobby's bare skin, but eventually they both shift until they have as much skin-to-skin contact with Dean as possible while still avoiding touching each other.

Sam keeps whispering softly to Dean, rubbing a hand over his brother's chest and determinedly not thinking about what they're doing. Or why they're doing it.

He'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant saving Dean's life.

Before long, Sam can hear Bobby talking softly too. Together, they weave a story above and around Dean, and Sam pretends that it's like a basket, air-tight and strong, keeping their warmth around Dean's cold body, bringing him back.

xxxx

_Pastor Jim calls to tell him that a rookie hunter needs a place to stay and do some research. If Jim trusts the guy, that's good enough for him, and he says so. Then Jim adds that the man is also hauling two little kids around with him. _

"_What?" Bobby practically yelps. "Is he insane?" _

"_Misguided, perhaps," Jim says. "Hunting has been thrust upon him and he is still trying to find his way. Maybe you can help with that." _

_Bobby grumbles under his breath. "If you couldn't convince him that hunting with a couple of damn kids is a bad idea, I doubt I can." _

"_Maybe," Jim allows. "Still. Offer him what support you can, huh?" _

"_Okay," Bobby says. "But only because you asked. And I still owe you one." _

"_One? You still owe me three, Singer."_

_Bobby laughs and adjusts his hat. "Don't push it, Jim," he says. "But I'll see what I can do." _

_The next day John Winchester rolls into his yard in a big beast of a car and climbs out, all flannel and stubble and piercing eyes. _

"_Bobby?" he says, holding out a hand. "John Winchester." _

"_Nice to meet you," Bobby says. The back door of the Impala opens up and a little kid, no more than five or six, scoots out, a toddler in his arms. John smiles at the boys and scoops the toddler from the older boy's arms, resting a hand on his shoulders. _

"_This is Sam," John says, nodding at the baby, "and this is Dean. Say hi, Dean?" _

_Dean looks up from under heavy lashes and mumbles a greeting that Bobby can hardly hear. _

"_Hey," Bobby says, squatting down and holding a hand out. "Dean, right?" _

_Dean makes eye contact with him for a split second before looking at the ground again. He has white-blonde hair cut short and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Must take after his mother. _

"_My name's Bobby. It's good to meet you." _

_Dean looks up at him again but doesn't offer his hand. Bobby keeps his out. _

"_That's your little brother, right? Sam?" _

_Dean nods a bit at this. _

"_He looks like a rascal," Bobby whispers, leaning in closer to Dean. "Is that true?" _

_Dean, to his delight, giggles and nods. _

"_And you? Are you a rascal too?" _

"_No," Dean whispers. "I take care of Sammy." _

"_Ah," Bobby says. "That sounds like an important job." _

"_It is," Dean agrees. "The most important. Dad said so." _

"_Well," Bobby says. "I happen to be an expert in important jobs, so if you ever need any help with that rascal brother of yours, you just ask me, okay?" _

"_Okay," Dean says, then tucks his small hand into Bobby's. _

_Three days later, John is off on a hunt (and Pastor Jim was batshit crazy if he thought anything was going to convince him to stop hunting) and Bobby's got his hands full of kids. They're great kids, actually, quiet and well-behaved, though Sam's constantly tottering towards trouble (staircases, fireplaces, swords, you name it) and Dean's getting his exercise in chasing after his younger brother. _

_It's the second night that Bobby wakes up to hear gently muffled crying from the room that the boys are sharing. He stands outside the door for a few minutes, debating whether or not he should go in, but when the crying shows no signs of abating he eases the door open. _

_Sam's in his portable crib, sound asleep on his back, arms flung above his head, snoring lightly. Dean, on the other hand, is sitting up in his bed, one hand clasped over his mouth as his shoulders shake with smothered sobs. _

"_Hey," Bobby whispers, settling onto the mattress next to Dean. He can't tell if Dean is even fully aware of his surroundings or if he's still half-asleep, but he gathers the quaking form into his arms and starts rocking. _

"_Hey Dean," Bobby says, stroking the boy's hair. "You're okay. Huh? Bobby's gotcha. You're okay." _

_The shaking and crying abates and finally stops until Dean is sound asleep, tear-streaked face pressed to Bobby's shoulder. Bobby looks down at the little form in his arms and sighs. He wonders if this was John's plan all along, leave the boys knowing full well that they'd have Bobby wrapped around their fingers by the end of the weekend. _

_Dean shudders slightly, back hitching. Bobby rubs a hand against his spine, feels as Dean's breathing evens again. Well. Worse things have happened. _


	5. Chapter 5

_Sam can't sleep. He's tried really hard but he doesn't know where Harold is, and he can't sleep without Harold. Dad would tell him to suck it up. Dean would probably laugh at him. But Harold is his teddy bear, the one Dean says Mom gave him, and even though Harold's kind of beat up and one of his ears is falling off, Sam still loves him. _

_He scoots to the edge of his bed and lets his socked feet dangle over the edge and takes a deep breath. It's really dark. _

"_Sam?" Dean says, voice rough. Sam swallows thickly. _

"_Y-yeah?" he answers. _

"_Why aren't you asleep?" _

_Sam kicks his legs experimentally. Nothing eats them. _

"_I – I don't know where Harold is," he says eventually. _

_Dean is quiet for a second. _

"_Did you leave him out in the living room?" _

_Sam shrugs. "Maybe." _

_Dean sighs and Sam hears him padding softly around the room before the door opens a crack and Dean slips through it. Sam bites his lip and swings his legs again. Dean's really strong, and brave, so if there _is _anything in the dark he'll just beat it up. Hopefully. _

_Dean's gone for a really long time, but finally the door shuts quietly again and then Dean's weight settles on Sam's bed and Harold is tucked into his arms. _

"_His ear's coming off," Dean says. _

"_I know," Sam answers. _

"_Why didn't you tell me? I can fix that." _

"_Really?" Sam asks. "How?" _

"_By sewing it, dumbass." _

_Sam gasps and then snickers. Dean's been using bad words lately when Dad isn't home. It surprises Sam every time. It's funny every time, too._

"_Sewing is for girls," Sam says. _

_Dean scoffs. "Yeah, when you're making dresses and stuff. Dad taught me to sew. He says it's an important skill to have." _

_Sam's eyes widen. _

"_Wow," he says. "And you can sew Harold's ear back on?" _

"_Course I can," Dean says. "But not tonight. You need to go to sleep. Dad would be pissed if he knew." _

"_You won't tell him?" Sam says, voice small. _

"_No," Dean says. He tucks the blanket up around Sam's chin. "Try not to kick it off tonight," he says. "It's cold out." _

"_Thanks Dean," Sam whispers, but Dean's already gone back to his bed. _

_xxxx _

Dean still hasn't woken up. Hell, he's barely moved an inch since they got here. Sam is still curled around him, one hand placed protectively over his brother's heart as if it's the only thing that's keeping it beating, or as if it's the only thing keeping them connected. Bobby isn't sure which is the case, but he does know that he hasn't seen Sam this distraught in years.

"Sam? Hey, son," Bobby whispers, gently shaking Sam's shoulder. Sam looks up at him, wide-eyed and pale.

"Bobby?" he asks. "How long have you been up?"

Bobby looks down at himself, now wearing clothes again, and shrugs. "An hour or so. You were sleeping."

"Damn it," Sam mutters, scrubbing at his eyes. "Did I miss anything important?"

"Will and I got the phone working, called the hospital. They're gonna send a chopper as soon as they can. The storm's lessening up, so hopefully within the next hour or so."

Sam nods before stilling for a moment, the bridge of his nose pressed up against Dean's hair.

"He's still so cold," he whispers.

"It'll take more than even your bigfoot body heat to get him warmed up," Bobby says, "but they'll get him. Don't you worry."

Sam runs his hand through Dean's hair. "Since when have you been an optimist?" he asks softly.

Bobby sighs and sits down on Dean's other side, puts his hand on Dean's cheek; it's still unnervingly cold. He runs a calloused thumb over the chilled skin and wishes he could do more.

"Since it's your brother," Bobby says finally. "If anyone's stubborn enough to beat these odds, it's Dean."

Sam snorts lightly and shakes his head. "He's a stubborn bastard alright," he allows, "but I don't know if even he can beat this." Sam pauses for a moment and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion. "Who will sacrifice for him this time? Who's gonna make a deal for his life?"

"Back up," Bobby says, glancing up sharply at the youngest Winchester. "Are you telling me you feel guilty for not being willing to sell your soul for your brother's?"

Sam doesn't say anything, refuses to make eye contact.

"Sam. That ain't your job, son. You fight for your brother with everything you got, but if it isn't enough at the end of the day…"

He lets his voice trail off, watching as Sam angrily swipes at his eyes.

"Sam," Bobby says. "I know you love your brother, but that isn't up to you. Death is a part of life, happens to all of us. Your daddy-"

"Don't," Sam says. "Please, don't."

Bobby nods and sighs heavily. "Okay," he says. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid."

Sam looks away. "That's the problem," he says. "I won't. I _can't._ But he would for me."

Bobby doesn't have much to say to that, because he knows it's true as well as Sam does.

"I'm gonna go get you some food," Bobby says finally. "And you're gonna eat it. You're looking pretty exhausted yourself and we don't need both of you down."

"'kay," Sam mutters.

"Sam," Bobby says. "Hang in there. Don't give up on him just yet."

Sam doesn't answer, but a few seconds later he starts humming Metallica and Bobby smiles as he leaves the room.

When he comes back a few minutes later with a peanut butter sandwich in hand, Dean is shivering, full-length tremors that have the mattress shaking. He's started to make guttural noises under his breath, pained groans that he would never make if he were aware of himself. Sam looks panicked, murmuring reassurances under his breath and biting his lip, rubbing Dean's chest frantically.

"I know it's a good sign," he says as Bobby approaches, "but it's unnerving as hell."

Bobby presses a hand to Dean's back, shaking his head as the violent tremors course through the younger man's body and through his hand like an electric shock. His teeth clatter together with an alarming rapidity, and that noise combined with the moans makes for a pretty terrifying cacophony.

"Hang in there, son," Bobby murmurs, rubbing slow circles over Dean's back. "Not too much longer."

He stands up as Will, who has stuck to the kitchen in an effort to give them a bit of privacy, comes into the room. They meet in the doorway, an unspoken effort to keep Sam from hearing the conversation in case the news isn't good.

"How's he doing?" Will asks, voice low.

"He's still with us," Bobby says. It's the best thing he can think to say.

"The hospital just confirmed that they've got a chopper out," Will says. "It's on its way, and barring any flare-ups in the storm, should be here within fifteen minutes."

Bobby lets out a long breath and brings a hand to his mouth as emotion unexpectedly wells up, making his throat feel tight and his eyes burn.

"Thank you," Bobby says, voice hoarse. "I don't –" He pauses for a moment and clears his throat. "Thanks," he eventually repeats.

"I'm just glad I can help," Will says. "I nearly had a heart attack when I saw him stumbling down the road, wasn't sure if he'd even make it to the house. I've never been more glad to be wrong in my life."

"I won't forget what you did," Bobby says, "and neither will Sam. I'm gonna go tell him the good news."

Sam doesn't bother trying to hide the tears that come.

xxxx

The Life-Flight lands in Will's backyard, rotors spinning and engine roaring. They don't bother turning it off as two medics run toward the house, a stretcher slung between them. Bobby opens the door just as they get to it in a last effort to keep as much warmth as possible in the house, then ushers them quickly to the parlor.

Sam's sitting next to Dean, fully clothed now, and he nearly starts crying again when the medics walk in.

"Hi, I'm Rafe, and this is my partner Jamie," one of them says, crouching next to Dean. "How we doing?"

"He started shivering about a half hour ago," Sam says. "But he hasn't woken up." Rafe nods as he sticks a thermometer under Dean's armpit and presses a stethoscope to Dean's chest. Jamie starts an IV and hands Sam a bag of warm saline.

"Hold that up for us?" she asks, smiling when Sam nods. She turns back to Dean and settles an oxygen mask over his face.

"Any allergies to medications?" Rafe asks, pulling out the thermometer. He looks at it and keeps his face neutral, but Sam is well versed in reading blank expressions, and he knows that Dean's not doing very well.

"Sam?" Jamie prompts. "Allergies?"

"Oh. No," Sam says, shaking his head. It's all happening so quickly and so intensely that his head is nearly spinning. "I don't know if it affects anything, but we – we suspect he was roofied." He swallows thickly as he says it; he's been so focused on Dean and on helping him simply survive that he forgot about that particular worry. Now that he remembers it again, nausea wells in his throat and his stomach churns.

"Okay," Rafe says, then turns and says something to Jamie in a low tone that Sam can't hear. "We need to get him out of here right now, but there isn't enough room for you in the chopper."

"Oh," Sam says, blinking. "But – but he doesn't like flying."

Rafe looks at him sympathetically, while Jamie avoids making eye contact with Sam. "We're going to take good care of him," Rafe says, "and he's clearly pretty strong or he wouldn't have made it this far."

"But he's terrified," Sam insists. "Of flying. Are you sure I shouldn't come with you? Just in case he wakes up and panics?"

Rafe shakes his head. "I'm really sorry, but –"

"Bobby hit his head earlier, when we crashed," Sam says. "I'm pretty sure he's concussed, could go downhill at any minute. You should probably make sure he gets checked out."

Rafe raises an eyebrow and Jamie shakes her head.

"He's really old," Sam adds quickly. "And frail."

Bobby, who has been standing anxiously in the doorway, frowns and crosses his arms.

"Hey!" he says.

"It's true," Sam says, casting a desperate look towards Rafe. "You'll just have to ride with Dean." Rafe nods to Jamie, who goes to Bobby's side and lifts the bandage.

"Have you been having any symptoms of concussion? Any dizziness, lightheadedness?" Jamie asks, casting a critical eye over Bobby's forehead.

"Damn it," Bobby grumbles. "I've been a mite dizzy, but it hasn't been too bad."

Jamie slips a blood pressure cuff over his arm and takes a quick reading before looking at Rafe.

"It's a deep laceration and his BP's a bit low. He could deteriorate quickly," she says. Rafe nods.

"We'll bring him in, then," he says, looking to Sam. "Looks like your brother won't be flying alone after all."

Sam exhales slowly and smiles tiredly in relief. "Look out for him Bobby," he murmurs, voice catching in his throat and cracking when it finally escapes.

"Of course," Bobby says, drawing to Sam's side and pulling him into an awkward hug. "This would be easier if you weren't ten feet tall," he grumbles. Sam lets out a laugh tinged with a sob and grips Bobby tighter for a second.

"I'll get there as quick as I can," Sam says as they separate. "I'll walk if I have to."

"Just be safe," Bobby says with a frown. "We'll be waiting for you."

Sam nods and kneels down next to Dean, gripping his brother's cold hand in his and determinedly ignoring the IV lines that trail the movement.

"Hey," Sam says. "Looks like you're gonna get out of here ahead of me. Just – you have to wait for me Dean, okay? I'll be there soon. You hang on."

The medics raise the stretcher up and move it out, leaving Sam to guide Bobby to the waiting helicopter. They get Dean settled and then help Bobby sit down, where one of the medics immediately starts looking at his forehead. Sam watches them close the door and lift off the ground, struggling to blink back tears as his brother gets smaller and smaller and then flies out of sight.

xxxx

_Sam stomps all the way home from school and makes sure to hit every puddle and kick every rock in his path. A block from home Dean stops him with a hand to his shoulder. _

"_Okay Sammy, spill. What's up?"_

_Sam glares at the ground, scrapes the toe of his sneaker over the pavement. _

"_Sam. Come on." _

"_I don't need a mom," Sam says finally. It comes out before he can stop it, like always, and he silently berates himself. Dean seems to have frozen in place. _

"_What?" he says. His voice is low. _

"_I _said _I don't need a mom," Sam repeats. "I don't see what the big deal about moms are anyway. Everything moms are supposed to do, you do."_

"_Sam," Dean starts, but Sam isn't in the mood for listening. _

"_No," Sam says. "You can't make me change my mind. I never knew Mom. I don't miss her. How can I miss something I never even knew? So just – just – I don't know, Dean, but how can I miss her? Should I miss her? Is something wrong with me if I don't miss her?" _

_He doesn't even realize he's crying until he's in Dean's arms, face smushed into his brother's jacket. A warm hand cups the back of his head and Dean starts talking. _

"_Hey Sammy, don't cry," he says. "Don't cry. It's okay not to miss her and it's okay to miss her like hell, and it's okay to feel both at once. I get it buddy. I got you." _

_Sam keeps his face pressed into Dean's chest. He's pretty sure he's smearing snot and tears all over his brother's jacket; he is so getting his ass kicked later for this._

"_Hey," Dean says. "You're okay. And if – if you ever need to, I dunno, talk about it or something, you can talk to me. I sure as hell ain't a therapist, but I do remember Mom, and, well. Maybe those memories will just have to do for the both of us." _

_Sam nods against Dean's jacket and Dean pushes him away lightly, socking him in the shoulder for good measure. _

_It isn't until much later that Sam realizes just how much it hurt his brother to talk about their mother, and what a substantial part of himself he was offering up in that moment. _


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks so much for all of the reviews/follows/favorites. Y'all are awesome! Just an epilogue to go after this chapter. Thanks for reading!

xxxx

When Dean wakes up, it's to sharp pain and bright lights and he is absolutely freezing. His teeth are clattering together and causing painful vibrations up through his skull and for the life of him he can't figure out what's going on. There are people touching him and talking over him. The noise makes his head ache even worse than before.

"Dad?" he murmurs, surprised at how much effort it takes to speak. His voice is scratchy and gets stuck partway up his throat. He tries again, louder, feeling the panic sink in his stomach. "Dad!"

Someone tries to soothe him, Dean thinks, saying that he's safe now and he's in the hospital, but all that really registers is that it isn't Dad and it isn't Sam and he _hurts_.

"No," he moans, trying to lift his hand and crying out when the movement sends fire racing up his arm. The noise above him grows more intense and he can start to make out blurry shapes of people around him. He groans again and thrashes, desperate to get out of wherever he is and to find his dad and Sam.

"We need you to hold still," a voice says, calm and quiet and somehow cutting through the noise and clamor around him.

Dean catches a glimpse of blonde hair and a hint of perfume and the voice is in his ear again, whispering to him.

"You're okay, Dean, you need to relax. We're going to take care of you."

"Mom?" he whispers. The woman doesn't answer, but he feels a hand in his hair, stroking softly. He sighs and lets oblivion take him again.

xxxx

Bobby is just about ready to start throwing punches. They stitched him up and scanned him and decided to admit him over night, "for observation." Bobby is pretty sure they just want to keep him out of the emergency room, probably because he'd started threatening people when no one would tell him about Dean. He has to give them credit for working quickly, though; It had only been an hour or so since he and Dean had been flown in and he was already sitting in his own room.

He yanks the IV out of his wrist and scoots to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over and mentally cursing the hospital gown he's in before deciding that, ass showing or not, he's going to go find Dean. He hasn't heard from Sam yet, either, and the lack of any kind of news is stressing him the hell out.

The elevator makes him a little dizzy, and a few nurses stop and look at him quizzically, but Bobby knows how to make himself look more important than he really is and no one stops him. He's just turning toward the room he saw them whisk Dean into when he hears a familiar voice, low and booming.

"Sam?" Bobby says, rounding the corner. Sam looks at him, face dissolving into something between relief and fear.

"Bobby," he sighs.

"When did you get here?" Bobby asks, wrapping his arms around Sam, hospital gown be damned. "_How _did you get here?"

"Will had a snowmobile," Sam says as they drop into two of the ugly plastic chairs lining the wall across from the ER. "With the snow finally stopping, we were able to get out."

"Where is he now?" Bobby asks. Sam smiles sheepishly.

"The local news station wanted to do a story on the miraculous rescue of a snowbound kidnapping victim," Sam says, scrubbing at his neck. "I let them have Will."

"All that and you threw him under the bus," Bobby says, mock-reproaching. Sam shrugs.

"It was him or us," he says. "And we might still have a hard time keeping them off of Dean. Once he's, uh, once he's doing better, that is."

"Have you heard anything yet?"

"Just that he's stable enough that they've got him getting some tests right now," Sam says. "They're taking x-rays of his arm and checking on his right kidney, and they want a scan of his head, too."

Sam is quiet for a moment, lower lip caught firmly between his teeth, dark circles showing under his eyes. "There's just – there's just a lot for them to deal with," he says finally. "The arm looks pretty bad. They're really worried about infection and Dean'll have to have surgery on it for sure. The docs said he's at risk for pneumonia too."

"Well shit," Bobby says, running a hand through his thinning hair. "He never does things halfway, huh?"

Sam doesn't laugh. "They said they're getting a room set up for him in the ICU right now, and once they get him settled we can go see him."

Bobby nods and breathes deeply, kneads at his temple for a minute. He can see Sam inspecting him closely from the corner of his eye.

"I'm not gonna break, son," he growls. Sam ducks his head.

"I know, just…"

"I know," Bobby says. "You're running on fumes right now, Sam. Have you gotten a motel room?"

Sam shakes his head. "I haven't thought that far ahead," he whispers. "I haven't thought of anything, really."

"Can't blame ya," Bobby says, "but you still need to lay down and get some sleep."

"I know," Sam says. "I'm so damn tired but I just can't – at least not until I can see that he's okay, you know?"

"Course," Bobby answers. "You can see your brother once he's settled, and then you can come sleep in my room."

Sam's head raises sharply at that and Bobby can't help but laugh at his expression.

"There's a bed in there for visitors, you idjit," he says. "I already shared a mattress with you once and that was _more_ than enough for my lifetime."

Sam grins in relief. "Okay," he says, breathing deeply and clearly struggling to compose himself. "Okay," he repeats, then looks up, face vulnerable. "We're gonna get through this, aren't we Bobby?"

Bobby swallows thickly. "Yeah Sam," he says, "we are. We'll get through this."

xxxx

Dean looks pretty bad. Sam's gotten a whole new definition of bad in the past few months, between Dean's electrocution and the whole demon-trying-to-cut-out-his-heart/Impala crash combination. This time is ranking pretty high up there with the other two instances; he's the same sickly gray color, has the same damn wires sticking out of just about everywhere, has the same medical staff hovering around him. At least he's breathing on his own this time, heated oxygen flowing from the mask over his nose and mouth. There are warmed bags of saline above his head, warming blankets draped over him. The room practically feels like a sauna.

Sam feels the blood drain from his face when he walks in, reaches a hand out blindly and gropes for a chair to collapse into. A nurse checking something on Dean looks at him sympathetically.

"I know he looks bad, sweetie," she says. Sam tries not to clench his teeth at the endearment. "But things could be worse."

"Mm," Sam grunts. She apparently takes that as a sign that he doesn't agree because she continues.

"When hypothermia is too severe, sometimes we put patients on bypass, take all their blood out and warm it up before it reenters the body," she says, and Sam feels a rush of dizziness strong enough that he has to tuck his head between his legs. "Oh, sorry," the nurse apologizes, resting a small hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam waves her off, shaking his head as much as he can.

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "I just mean that you and your uncle saved his life out there. He was still severely hypothermic when he got here, but he doesn't need that, at least."

"Uh," Sam says. He swallows thickly before adding, "Thanks?"

The nurse sighs. "Sorry. I'm still new and I tend to word vomit. Really, your brother is doing as well as he could be under the circumstances."

Sam looks at her more closely. She appears to be in her 50s or so, but maybe he's wrong if she's new. She sees him looking at her.

"I went back to school," she explains. "Got bored after all the kids left the house. I'm Diane, by the way. I'll be Dean's nurse for the night."

"Sam," Sam says.

"We'll take good care of him," Diane says, then looks them over again, her face softening. "Poor babies," she murmurs as she leaves the room.

Sam frowns and watches her leave, then turns back to his unconscious, pale, sickly, still somehow adorable brother.

"How the hell do you do that?" Sam asks. "You can't even move and you've got women falling all over you."

It's true; somehow, younger women always fall for Dean and older women always want to adopt him. It's like he just amplifies whatever hormones they're experiencing. All too soon the brief moment of levity is over as Dean remains quiet. Sam reaches out and grabs Dean's hand, relieved that it's warmer than in the cabin, but it's still too cold.

"Don't worry, not a chick-flick moment," he whispers. "I'm just making sure you're still here. You're gonna owe me a beer after this one."

Dean doesn't even flinch.

"Okay. Well, I'm going to go get some sleep," Sam says finally. "Bobby's threatening me, you know how he gets. I'll be back first thing in the morning."

He hesitates a minute, squeezes Dean's hand, and leaves.

xxxx

Dean finally becomes stable enough to go into surgery on his arm the next day, but the risk of infection is so great that they use external plates rather than internal, something that Sam could have gone his entire life without seeing and been okay. Dean's kidney seems to be doing all right and his urine is looking nice and yellow once more, something else that Sam hopes never to get excited about again. Maybe the best news he gets though, in a hushed and gentle tone from Dean's day nurse, is that there is no evidence of sexual assault. It lifts a weight from Sam's shoulders that he only half-realized was there.

Two days after Dean's miraculous rescue, Bobby's released from the hospital and gets a motel room for them. He insists on taking shifts sitting with Dean, though Sam insists that Bobby spend more time in the motel room resting off the last effects of his concussion. Will has stopped by a few times too, but it still ends up being mostly Sam who stays with Dean.

That means he gets first row seats when Dean's temperature skyrockets from too low to way too high, his face becoming flushed and sweaty. His arm becomes red and inflamed around the metal pieces holding it together. To make things worse, his battered ribs are causing problems too, and combined with the exposure, have resulted in a nasty case of pneumonia taking up residence in Dean's lungs.

By day four, Dean is hallucinating. Most of the time nothing he says is coherent, but the words "Mom" and "Dad" are coming up way more often than Sam is comfortable with. Diane has armed him with a damp cloth, so he runs it over his sick brother's forehead, murmuring assurances under his breath, soothing Dean as best he can.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asks quietly, entering the room.

"The same," Sam says. "His fever's still up and he's coughing pretty bad, but they've just started new antibiotics that they're hoping will do the trick."

"That's good," Bobby says, sitting in the chair on the other side of Dean's bed. "And what about you? How are you doing?"

Sam shrugs, thumbing Dean's hand. "I'm tired," he says finally. "And stressed."

"Guess that's to be expected," Bobby answers. "Are you doing okay with…the other thing?"

For a moment, Sam looks up, confused, then frowns and looks down.

"I would do it again," he says, "no hesitation. I don't feel bad about that. I guess I was just surprised to realize how far I'm willing to go for him." He looks fondly at Dean, trying to ignore the flushed face and pained grimace, and focus on his moving chest and on the warmth of his hand.

"Well, you're hardly the first Winchester to go overboard for family," Bobby says.

Dean chooses that moment to start growing restless again, squirming uncomfortably and reaching for the oxygen mask on his face.

"Hey," Sam shushes, grabbing Dean's hand in his and grateful for the splint keeping the other arm immobile. "Leave that alone. You're okay."

"Sam?" Dean rasps, cracking his eyes open.

"Hey Dean," Sam says, smiling. "I'm here, so is Bobby."

"Okay?" Dean asks.

"Yeah Dean," Sam answers, swallowing thickly. "We're both okay."

Dean nods, blinking heavily. "'s good," he slurs.

"It is," Sam agrees. "Just a little longer and you'll be okay too. Just relax."

"Arm?" Dean asks, trying and failing to move his right arm.

"Yeah, it's busted pretty bad. They're fixing it up though, don't you worry," Sam says.

Dean seems satisfied by the answer and soon drifts back to sleep.

"Go on, Sam," Bobby says. "You need some sleep. I'll stay with him for a while."

"Thanks Bobby," Sam answers, scrubbing at his hair. "Hey. You know I'd do the same for you, right?"

Bobby grins tiredly. "Always said family don't end with blood," he says. "Now get."

xxxx

The next time Dean wakes, it's to white walls and beeping sounds that he is all too familiar with.

"Dean! You with me?"

Dean blinks and turns his head, unsurprised to see Sam sitting next to him.

"Hospital?" Dean murmurs.

"Yep," Sam confirms.

"How long?"

Sam's face falls and Dean wonders vaguely how many times he's woken up and asked his brother the same questions.

"Coming up on a week," Sam answers. "You've been pretty out of it. But you're doing a lot better now."

"Still feel like crap," Dean complains. It's true; his chest aches and his back is sore and his arm is _killing _him. "Whoa, what the _hell _is wrong with my arm?" he demands, stunned at seeing his arm with metal plates and screws sticking out of it.

"Don't freak out, Dean. They're going to take you back up to surgery tomorrow and put in some internal plates. This was just a precaution to avoid infection."

"Oh," Dean says. He vaguely recalls stumbling through the snow and seeing shards of bone sticking through his skin. "How – how bad is it?"

Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "It was pretty bad for a while. Got infected and they weren't sure they'd be able to save it, but you're doing way better now."

"Well shit," Dean says, shaking his head. "What in the hell happened?"

"How much do you remember?" Sam asks.

"Uh," Dean mutters eloquently. "Snow, and hurting, and…"

"And?" Sam prompts.

"Nothing," Dean says. He isn't ready to share yet that he heard Mom and Dad. He can't figure out if it actually happened or not. He's pretty sure it didn't, but he isn't quite ready to rule it out. After all, they've seen stranger things happen. "I don't remember anything else."

"You got roofied by some hunters with a grudge against Dad," Sam says after a second, and Dean frowns.

"I what?" he says. "Seriously?"

"Yep," Sam says. "They dumped you once they realized Dad's – well, once they realized."

Dean shakes his head and runs his good hand through his hair. "How was I so dumb?" he asks quietly.

"You've been kind of out of it lately," Sam says. "We both have."

Dean can hear the quiet self-incrimination in Sam's voice and frowns.

"Hey. This wasn't your fault," he says. "I was the dumb-ass who let himself get drugged. You're the one who found me."

"Yeah," Sam says. "I guess."

"How did you find me?" Dean asks after a minute.

"You stumbled onto some guy's house," Sam answers. "He called."

Dean studies his brother for a minute; it's clear that Sam is lying, or at least not telling the whole story, but Dean figures he's probably been through enough trauma over the past few days and decides to let it go for now. The pain meds are starting to tug at his consciousness anyway, and he feels sleep coming on.

"Get some rest," Sam says quietly, patting at Dean's good arm.

"Sam?" he whispers.

"Right here," Sam answers.

"Dad – he's dead, right?"

Sam is quiet, his face showing his surprise and concern at the soft question.

"I mean, he hasn't – you haven't…seen him?"

"Nah, Dean," Sam says after a moment. "He's, uh, he's still dead."

"Yeah," Dean says, heart sinking. "Of course he is. I was just – must be the fever or whatever."

"Sleep," Sam admonishes, running a hand through Dean's hair. Dean wants to complain, but he only manages to moan a little bit. "You're okay."

Dean turns his head away and tries not to sniffle, but he knows that Sam sees the tear that runs down his cheek. Still, Sam doesn't say anything, or worse, try something sappy, and Dean drifts off to sleep with a feeling of loss that hurts worse than his other injuries combined.

xxxx

_Sammy's only just gotten over being sick, but now both Mary and Dean have it. His wife is miserable, nauseated and feverish, and Dean is crying and clingy, craving his mother's comfort. She's just not up to it, though, and when Sam joins in, squalling at the top of his lungs until he's red in the face, Mary starts crying too. _

"_I'm sorry, John, I just need some sleep and I can't hold them and they're my babies and I want to but I just feel like shit," she sobs. _

"_Hey," John whispers, smoothing a rough hand through her hair. "I'll take care of them for a few minutes, okay? We'll just go out." _

"_Where are you going?" Mary asks. "Dean's still sick and he needs –" _

"_Don't worry," John says. "I'll just take them for a spin in the Impala. You know how Dean gets." _

"_Okay," Mary says, blowing her nose. "Don't forget a bottle for Sammy, and Dean's blankie." _

"_I know," John answers fondly, smiling and pressing a kiss to Mary's hair. "Don't worry. Get some sleep. We'll be back soon." _

_He takes Sammy out first, buckling him in to his car seat and settling a blanket around him, popping a binky in his mouth. Sam promptly spits it out and resumes wailing, and John tries to put it back in before giving up and going to get Dean. His oldest is curled miserably on the couch where John left him, back hitching with tired sobs. His face is flushed and his teeth are chattering. _

"_Hey buddy, how about a spin in the Impala, huh?" John whispers, tucking Dean into his blanket before picking him up. Dean immediately rests his sweaty head on John's shoulder, and John is struck, not for the first time, with how much trust Dean has in him. It's a scary responsibility, but one that touches his heart in a way that he never experienced before becoming a parent. _

"_Don't feel good," Dean murmurs into his shirt. _

"_I know kiddo," John says, rubbing circles on his son's back. He sets Dean in the passenger seat and closes the door, then climbs into the driver's side. _

"_Sammy?" Dean whispers, pulling his drooping head up in the direction of Sam's cries. _

"_He's okay," John answers, reaching around to give the baby the pacifier again. This time it works and Sam quiets, sucking peacefully on his binky. Dean settles back in the seat, allowing his head to droop again. John reaches over and settles him so that Dean's head rests on his thigh and runs a hand through his son's hair as he starts up the Impala. Both boys relax even further and Dean lets out a little sigh of contentment. _

_Within ten minutes, both Sam and Dean are sleeping quietly, but John decides to keep driving, just for a little while longer. _


	7. Epilogue

A/N: Thanks so much for sticking with this story and for the great support. Y'all rock.

xxxx

The day Dean gets out of the hospital he immediately declares that he will not be staying with Bobby because, damn it, he's a grown man and he can take care of himself. Sam rolls his eyes but eventually agrees; he knows that Dean's pride has taken a beating since the kidnapping and decides to let him have his way.

He and Bobby have a bet going as to how long it will be before Dean finally caves. Not that they'll ever tell Dean.

They only drive fifteen minutes before Dean is passed out or close to it, his face the most relaxed Sam's seen it in weeks. A few hours later Sam pulls into a nice-looking motel, figuring they can afford to splurge a bit since they've just had a free stay in the hospital. He helps Dean out of the car and into the room, smiling at how easy his brother is to manipulate. Dean has the goofy grin he always gets when he's on the good pain meds, and he's giggling at everything Sam says. As much as he hates the cause of Dean's current mood, it's still a kind of hilarity that he rarely gets to witness.

Two days later, neither he nor Dean are laughing anymore. Dean comes out of the bathroom after shaving with at least four cuts that Sam can see, little patches of toilet paper stuck to them.

"Not a word," Dean growls.

Sam watches without comment as Dean struggles to tie his boots, eventually giving up and wearing Sam's flip-flops with a look of utter hatred toward Sam.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Sam says, putting his hands up. He even manages not to laugh at the sight of Dean wearing sandals, even though they're a few inches too long for him and he's never worn anything but boots as long as Sam can remember.

At one point Dean gets frustrated enough that he takes his sling off, but Sam is all over him.

"You know you're just making it worse," Sam says. "And then you'll have to have even more physical therapy, and you might even lose the use of your arm. Is that what you want?"

Dean scowls at him.

"Put it back on, Dean."

Dean scowls again and mutters some choice curses under his breath, but the sling goes back on.

Sam watches him struggle to brush his teeth and eat his food, then watches him start to go stir crazy for want of something to do.

Finally, Dean stops in the middle of trying – and failing to eat a hamburger, and looks up at Sam with barbecue sauce smeared on his face and a dejected expression.

"Sam," he says quietly. "I, uh, I think maybe I could use some help with stuff."

"Oh?" Sam says, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Dean answers.

"So you'd be okay with us heading to Bobby's? So, you know, the strain isn't on one person."

Sam knows he's playing with Dean's big-brother radar, but he does so shamelessly.

"Fine," Dean sighs, flushing and scrubbing a hand over one eyebrow.

"Great," Sam says. Inwardly, he groans; three days. He owes Bobby twenty bucks.

xxxx

When the boys show up at Bobby's, Dean is white-faced and trembling with pain until Sam all but force feeds him pain killers.

Bobby is pretty nice about the whole thing; he and Sam come to a silent pact to allow Dean what pride he still has left.

Turns out, it's the Roadhouse gang that causes trouble.

Two days after they arrived on Bobby's doorstep, a bunch of flowers shows up, along with a smiley face balloon from Jo and a teddy bear from Ash.

"Oh look, Ellen sent you some flowers," Sam says, reading the card. "She says, um. She says to get well soon and stop letting yourself get roofied or she'll kick your ass. Ash hopes the teddy bear helps you feel better."

Dean groans from his spot on the couch.

"I've lost all credibility," he mutters. "My reputation is ruined forever."

"Nah, not forever," Bobby says. "Maybe in a decade or two people will forget that you got yourself kidnapped and remember that you actually kick ass some of the time."

Dean groans again and Sam laughs and, for a moment at least, everything feels right again.


End file.
